Immortal Castrati Part 1

The idea for this story arose after watching the film FARINELLI and 
then reading "Interview with the Vampire" later in bed.  

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  IMMORTAL CASTRATI  

 
    "Ready?"  the student at the harpsichord asked.
     The boy standing in the center of the church's stage looked 
around at the empty sanctuary and turned back to his friend, 
nodding.  He also smiled at the little boy standing ready to turn 
the pages of the script of music, although he doubted that it would 
be neccessary.   It was the first time he had ever sung in the 
church, and his teacher was curious as to how his voice would sound 
with no one else there to absorb it.  The church was empty and 
still, and the vast sanctuary would provide the aucoustics the 
teacher needed to make his judgements.  For the last two years, 
this boy had been his best singing student, a real virtuoso, and 
this was to be his final test of voice before the operation.  From 
the very back of the huge room, he waved and called out, "Begin!"
     The boy, Pietro, drew in a deep breath and began to sing as 
the harpsichord filled the room with a delicate sound, a relatively 
simple piece of  church music to which the boy needed no score to 
read.  He had sung it hundreds of times, and although it was simple 
and easy to remember, it was a beautiful piece that would test the 
limits of his clear soprano voice.  He went through the first verse 
with no difficulty, and growing more sure of himself and 
comfortable with his surroundings, he dove into the second with 
more confidence and conviction.  He was watching his teacher, the 
Maestro, far at the back of the sanctuary the entire time.
     As he entered the third and final verse, smiling, he glanced 
sideways at his friend, Giovani, at the harpsichord.  The older 
boy's fingers flew over the keyboard with the same confidence as 
Pietro's voice as they came together and filled the deserted church 
with a sound that could only be described as priceless.  
The little boy, Marc, was enraptured and had forgotten his page-
turning duties; not that Giovani needed him to, anyway.  The 
Maestro was smiling and nodding, gesturing for Pietro to summon up 
more for the ending, as if it were possible.  Pietro caught the 
gesture and nodded, never missing a note.
     As he began to end the song, he turned only slightly to aim 
his head at the glass of water from which he had been drinking and 
had left sitting on the edge of the priest's small stand near the 
pulpit.  He came to the brief pause very near the end of the song 
and drew up as much breath he could fit into his lungs.  When he 
released the final note, it was with every ounce of his soul 
pouring into it.  Giovani was no longer looking at the music,  nor 
poking Marc in the ribs to remind him to turn the pages.  His hands 
were automatically pounding the keys as Pietro's voice rose to a 
note so high that it was almost unreal.
     The glass shattered.
     And it was over.
     The Maestro ran down the center aisle towards the stage, 
bounding up the few steps to sweep the boy up in his arms and spin 
him around.  There were tears in his eyes as he touseled the boy's 
hair and turned to Giovani who sat shiverring at the now silent 
harpsichord.  Marc looked stunned.   Both of them knew the boy had 
been holding out on them; never before had he produced such sound 
at the conservatorio during the seemingly endless lessons.  Neither 
of them, student-composer nor teacher, had expected this - not from 
a boy only eight years old.
     "And are you pleased, Maestro ?"  Pietro asked as his feet 
touched the floor once again.
     The answer came only in the form of a nod, as words escaped 
the astounded teacher.
     Finally, composing himself with great effort to his usual 
teaching demeanor, he stepped back to announce to both boys, "The 
test has been a great success, Pietro.  More than a success."
     Pietro smiled at Giovani, who was still looking a little 
shaken, and trying to clean up the mess of shattered glass and 
water.
     "Let us go then and thank the priest for the loan of his 
church at this odd hour," the Maestro said, "and then retire for 
the evening.  We have much to do tomorrow and will need to be 
rested up for it."

     The three of them paid their respects to the priest, who 
admitted to having been eavesdropping on the practice.  Marc was 
silent.   The priest's voice was quavering as he told them he had 
never in his sixty-odd years of ministry heard such a voice.  
Truly, it had to be a gift, he had said, laughing at the story of 
the shattering glass.  They took their leave of the priest then, 
with offers to practice in his church if ever they needed to again 
- and would the Maestro be so kind as to mention to Pietro to 
perform for the congregation sometime ?  It seemed a shame, he 
thought, to keep such a talent hidden away at the conservatorio.
     It was much to think about as they set out on foot for the 
conservatorio they called home.  It was only about a half hour's 
walk from the church, and the sun had just gone down.   The sky 
seemed to be on fire in the west, and the evening was crisp and 
cool with the promise that Autumn was not far away.  It was almost 
perfect.
     Pietro was distracted though.
     He could feel eyes on him as the walked, and unconsciously he 
stepped up the pace.  It was not the mere exhileration of what had 
happened in the church, nor the words of praise from the priest.  
It was not the anticipation of tomorrow's plans, nor was it the 
feeling of arrogant pride.  Someone was watching him, and the 
feeling of being of being stared at was unnerving.
     Pietro didn't hear the Maestro dispatch Giovani to go tell the 
doctor to come to the conservatorio as they had discussed, and when 
the Maestro placed a hand on his shoulder to slow his accellerating 
pace, Pietro jumped and yelled.  Marc was out ahead of them, 
oblivious to whatever Pietro felt.
     "What is it, Pietro ?" his teacher asked, "What is wrong ?"
     The boy looked around in confusion.  "Where is Giovani ?" he 
demanded, his voice suddenly harsh and full of fear.
     "Pietro, I just sent him off to go and confirm with the doctor 
that he will be coming to the conservatorio tomorrow evening for 
your operation.  Where is your mind, boy ?"
     "I . . . I . . .uh . . . don't know, sir," the boy stammered.
     "Come now, Pietro, we've been planning this for months and you 
have surpassed all of our expectations.  Do you not want to 
preserve this angelic voice of yours ?  You have known since you 
were very small that the operation is done to many boys . . . 
you've even asked about it and when it would be done to you.  Are 
you frightened, now ?  It's a bit late for that, you know," the 
Maestro chided.
     Pietro looked all around him as the sunset began to fade and 
saw the gates of the only place he had ever called home coming into 
view.   The heavy iron of the gates and the stone wall did nothing 
to allay his fears, however.  It wasn't the impending operation 
that terrified him, it was the feeling - but how to explain it 
without sounding insane ?
     "It's not that, sir, no, " he explained, "it's just - I don't 
know - I feel like someone is watching us.  Don't you ?"
     The Maestro stared at him for a moment and shook his head, 
then laughed.
     "Nerves.  It's always like this the night before.  I promise 
you, Pietro, you won't feel a thing.  The doctor will give you a 
hot bath and some opium dissolved in spiced wine.  You'll sleep 
through the whole thing, " he told the boy.
     But it wasn't that at all.   Pietro had no fears over his 
impending castration to preserve his voice, the procedure was 
routine and the doctor very experienced.  Of course, there would be 
reasons given other than his voice for the operation, there always 
were.  Fully half of the boys at the conservatorio were castrati, 
and not one of them would admit to having submitted to the 
operation willingly; there was always a medical reason - something 
very bad, to be sure.
     Then he saw the shadow move beside the huge tree near the 
corner of the stone wall.
     At first he thought it was Marc, but the small boy had come 
around behind them and was standing there quietly.
     It was a boy about his own size, it had to be !
     "Maestro ! " he shouted, "someone is outside the wall !  I saw 
him !"
     The teacher looked around, but saw nothing.  He put his arm 
around Pietro and pulled him close as he unlocked the gate.  "No 
one would be out this late, but us," he said reassuringly, "would 
you want to be the one caught sneaking out at night when you should 
be in bed?"
     The Maestro cleared his throat and threw a glance at Marc, who 
had begged to come along.  Then he smiled at the boys who was 
almost Pietro's "shadow."
     Pietro thought about the beating whoever it was would surely 
receive if caught.  Still, it didn't convince him that he had not 
seen someone there - a small someone.
     "You are going straight to bed, now, young men, " the Maestro 
ordered as they entered the front door, "Now, off with you.  Get 
some rest and settle down !"
     Pietro ran up the stairs to his room with Marc right behind 
him, and not bothering to undress, locked his door and jumped into 
bed.  He shouted a hasty goodnight to Marc and pulled the covers up 
over his head and curled up into a ball, trembling and still 
feeling eyes upon him.  It was very late before he went to sleep.

     From a wide limb high in the ancient tree, a small dark form 
sat watching the terrified boy thru his window.  It did not matter 
that it was dark now, as he could see everything well . . . 

     The sun was streaming through Pietro's window and falling 
across his face, giving it a glow which seemed unearthly somehow; 
yet no one was there to see it, and the boy awoke slowly.  He 
rubbed his eyes, yawned and stretched, and slowly sat up.  He 
stared out the window into the bright light, squinting, realizing 
that they had let him sleep very late into the day.  It was almost 
noon !  
     Thinking himself late, and still a bit groggy, Pietro jumped 
up and realized that he had slept in his clothes.  He had never 
done that before, and wondered why.  Then the memory came back to 
him as he stepped over to the window to look down from his second 
story room onto the grounds below.  He could see the huge tree by 
the thick stone wall of the conservatorio, and thought himself 
silly for having been so frightened by what he thought he had seen 
the previous night.  He sighed and then remembered that today was 
the day.  
     The doctor would be here sometime to prep him for the 
operation that would keep his voice from ever changing - he was 
become a castrato singer that very day.  Pietro shook his head and 
stripped off his wrinkled clothes.  He had worn a gray suit over a 
white laced shirt to the church last night, instead of the 
customary plain, peasant-looking clothes the non-castrati usually 
wore.  The castrati, of course, all wore the long black robes with 
the customary red sash that labelled them for what they were, a 
sign for all the world to see.  Soon he would have one (actually, 
several) of those same robes and the thought intrigued him.  He had 
been dreaming of it for so long.
     He deposited his slept-in clothing in his laundry basket and 
pulled a plain gray tunic from his closet and put it on.  There 
wasn't much point in dressing up, after all, not today.  As he 
descended the stairs, he could hear voices coming from the office 
of the Headmaster.  It sounded like the Headmaster, the Maestro, 
and someone else he did not know were having a very heated 
discussion.  Pietro was not a rude boy, but he simply could not 
resist a bit of eavesdropping.  He padded silently on bare feet up 
to the door and listened.
     "I tell you, I found him this morning, " the stranger was 
saying, "right after he left my house."
     "Poor Giovani, " Pietro heard the Maestro say, his voice 
catching, "who could have done this ?"
     "We are grateful for your story to the authorities, however, 
doctor, " the Headmaster was saying, "this could have meant total 
disaster for the conservatorio."
     Pietro gasped - the doctor was already there !  Now he 
recognized the voice.   And 'poor Giovani' ?  What did that mean ?  
Had he been injured or suddenly fallen ill ?  The boy had to know.
     "We have been friends too long for me to betray you, " the 
doctor replied, "I could not bear to be the one responsible for the 
end of this century-old institution and its music."
     "But who could have done this and why ? " the Maestro was 
asking.  Then Pietro heard a gasp.  "You know, Pietro thought he 
saw someone outside the wall last night after the test in the 
church.  Do you think it might be something ?"
     "The authorities have no idea right now.  Right now all they 
are concerned with is that there is a murderer in this town and his 
first victim has been a student of this school.  We must be very 
careful.  I do not want to see any more of my boys torn to pieces 
!"  The Maestro stated, then Pietro could hear the choked sobs.
     Enough was enough.  He had deduced that Giovani was dead, and 
he had to know the whole story.  Forgetting his manners, he pushed 
the door open and walked in on the three men.  "Tell me, " he 
demanded.  They all looked at the small boy standing in the 
doorway.  The Maestro crossed the room and picked him up and held 
him for what seemed like a very long time.  When he went back to 
his chair, he held the boy on his lap with his arms enfolded around 
him protectively.
     "Pietro, " the Headmaster began, "Last night, after your 
performance in the church, Giovani went to the doctor's home to 
confirm your appointment.  He left with a letter of confirmation 
stating he would be here today to see you.  However, he never made 
it home.  The Authorities found him this morning.  I am sorry, 
Pietro, but your friend was murdered last night . . . horribly.  I 
am still sick from identifying him."
     Pietro could feel the Maestro's arms tightening around him as 
his teacher was overcome with another wave of grief.  The boy 
twisted around in his lap and buried his face in the Maestro's 
shoulder.  He cried for a while, but when he turned back to face 
them all, there was a strange look on his face and a light shining 
in his eyes that took them all aback.  The men realized that the 
boy was not only saddened at the loss of his best friend, but that 
he was angry.  The look on his face was one of rage.
     "When will his services be ?" Pietro asked, sliding down the 
Maestro's lap and approaching the Headmaster.  
     "We don't know yet, my boy, the authorities have . . . " he 
paused for a moment, and the doctor nodded at him from his place 
opposite them.  "Pietro, they have him on ice to keep him to 
examine his body for clues.  They must, you see."
     Pietro nodded and turned to the doctor.  The look on the boy's 
face had become unreadable.
     "Is everything ready ?" he demanded in a flat, defiant tone.
     Mutely, the doctor nodded.
     "Good, then let us get to it.  The sooner it is done, the 
better."

     Pietro and the doctor had left the room.  The Headmaster was 
staring at the Maestro, who was staring at the door.  "Did you see 
his eyes? " The Maestro asked, turning to face the Headmaster.  The 
older man nodded and then rested his head in his hands.
     "Do you think we should have told him ?  He is but eight years 
old !"
     "And he is very intelligent, " the Headmaster added, "so much 
so that he frightens me at times."
     "We had to, " the Maestro stated, "they were so close, both 
orphans, just like brothers!   But his eyes . . . I tell you, my 
friend, something has changed in Pietro just now.  It was as if I 
could almost feel it as I held him - I could feel it slip away."
     "He is sad and angry, but that will  pass."
     "No, " the Maesto disagreed, "I do not think it will.  I think 
even after this is all over, Pietro will never be the same.  Why 
now and why him ?  Do you think he will be able to continue ?  
Perhaps we should stop the operation !  It's just too much all at 
once !"
     The Headmasters face was a study in concentration.  After a 
moment, he shook his head.  "Those two were the finest here, 
Giovani writing and playing and Pietro singing.  Even the smallest 
of the students knew it.  One can especially see the adoration on 
Marc's face.   No, Pietro will continue.  He is too intelligent not 
to.  This I know, for his lost friend, if nothing else.  He has 
even more motivation to be the best he can be now. "
     The Maestro slowly nodded and bowed his head, taking leave of 
the Headmaster.  "I must go and see if he needs me, " he murmured, 
"he shouldn't be alone right now."

     Pietro's mind was racing as he followed the doctor down to the 
basement rooms where the baths were.  His friend was gone, they had 
told him, murdered and terribly mutilated by some crazed killer.  A 
killer who, it appeared, was after boys from the conservatorio.  He 
wondered . . . there would surely be singing at the services which 
would be held in the same church in which they had practiced only 
last night.  But he was only moments away from the castration that 
had been planned for months.  Even if the authorities kept 
Giovani's body for two days, it didn't give him much time.  It was 
not winter yet, and Pietro knew that they would have to act fast.  
He had made up his mind by the time the doctor was done inspecting 
the setup.
     "Sir, I must make a request." he stated flatly.
     The doctor turned and faced him.  "And that is ?"
     "Sir, I know you are a fine doctor, but I must be recovered 
from this by the time of the funeral."
     The doctor stared at the boy for a moment, and then shook his 
head, "Pietro, it will be two days at the most.  You must stay in 
bed afterwards for at least a week !  We are talking about 
castration here, not setting a broken finger !"
     "I must be able to sing for him, doctor, " Pietro said with 
that cold look in his eyes again, "he would still be alive, here 
with us, but not for me.  I am responsible for his death, and I 
will make it up to him, somehow, if only by being the greatest 
singer the world has ever known !"
     The Maestro had entered the room just as Pietro's voice had 
risen to a commanding tone.  The boy was shaking, and looked pale 
and fragile.  Had madness overtaken him, or was it just terrible 
grief ?  Certainly, he was not himself right now !  He wanted to 
sing at Giovani's funeral ?  He felt it his fault ?  This had to be 
corrected, and quickly !  The Maestro, again at a loss for words, 
came up behind Pietro and placed his hands on the boy's slight 
shoulders.
     "Do not be rude to the doctor, my boy, he knows his business 
well ."
     Pietro was unlacing his tunic, however.  It was clear that the 
boy was determined to go thru with this.  For an instant, the 
Maestro saw a vision of this boy standing by his best friend's 
casket in a black robe with the red sash and using his voice to 
atone for a sin that was not his.  That cold look was still in the 
boy's eyes as he picked up the glass of red wine that had been 
laced with opium.  He let his tunic fall to the floor and , staring 
at the steaming bath, gulped the wine down in one long draw.
     The Maestro had just enough time to grab the empty glass as 
Pietro coughed once and fell back into his arms, his cold shining 
eyes glassing over as he lapsed into senselessness.

     From a hidden corner of the basement, off in the dark 
reccesses, another pair of cold eyes took in the scene and began to 
cry.

     The Maestro gently placed the unconscious Pietro into the 
bath, arranging a pillow just behind his head.  He stroked the 
boy's wild and untended blonde hair, and found himself on the verge 
of tears again.  Pietro had been left on the conservatorio steps, 
he remembered, an abandoned baby that no one seemed to want.  The 
Maestro had been working on new score at the time, he remembered - 
God it was so clear now - , and was distracted by the wailing sound 
coming from the direction of the front door.  He had flung the door 
open in a rage, and gazed upon Pietro's face for the first time.  
He had fallen in love at that moment.
     He recalled carrying the crying baby into his study, where six-
year-old Giovani had been harrassing the harpsichord.  Giovani had 
been one of those stray, starved looking children who just wandered 
up to the conservatorio gates one day and stayed for a meal; he had 
never left.  The Maestro, skeptical as usual, had soon discovered, 
however, that the waif was a musical genius !  He began reading 
music in a day, and by the end of the week was playing incredibly 
well at the keyboard.   Somehow, over time, the three of them had 
become an odd little family.   Then Marc had been dropped off at 
the conservatorio some years later and no one ever came back for 
him.  The Maestro instructed, Giovani played, and over time Pietro 
sang.  Marc simply watched and slowly began to sing, showing much 
promise as well.
     "It is time, " the doctor announced, pulling his dripping arm 
out of the bath and drying it off.
     Stirred from his reverie, the Maestro nodded and lifted Pietro 
out of the water.  He placed the boy's limp body on a linen covered 
table, and stepped back to let the doctor do his work.  Choosing a 
short, thin scalpel, the doctor opened a line down the middle of 
Pietro's scrotum and reached into the wound with what looked like a 
crochetting rod.  When he pulled back, the small hook at the end of 
the rod held the cords and veins leading to Pietro's left 
testicle.  With a deft and skilled hand, he looped a length of 
silken thread around them and pulled it tight.  He then severed the 
cords and placed the testicle in a bowl next to his tray of 
instruments.  The procedure was repeated on the remaining testicle, 
and then the wound was stitched shut with a fine line of delicated 
sutures that looked like the work of the best seamstresses that the 
Maestro could name.  

     The doctor paused as he heard what sounded like a choking sob 
coming from somewhere in the room, and the look on the Maestro's 
face said that he had also heard it.  Both men looked around, but 
saw nothing.

     The doctor returned to his work, pouring pure grain alcohol 
over the wound and then covering it with a small bandage.  Pietro 
moaned softly in his sleep, but did not stir.  Then, after only a 
slight amount of blood had soaked into the bandage and through it, 
the doctor changed it and covered the boy with a white blanket.   
"Take him to his bed, Maestro, and be gentle.  Keep him covered and 
warm, and have someone watch him at all times.  He will no doubt 
run a fever, but that is to be expected.  When he awakens, make him 
drink all of this, "the doctor ordered, "it will put him right back 
to sleep.  He must rest, and you and I have much to discuss."
     The Maestro gently lifted the boy from the table and carried 
him up the stairs to the main floor and then up to his room.  He 
placed him in bed, on his back, with his legs spread apart and 
covered him with another blanket.  He paused to brush the wild 
blonde hair out of Pietro's face and kissed his forehead.  There 
were tears standing in his eyes as he murmured, "My castrato, 
Pietro . . . " and left the room to find someone to watch over the 
sleeping boy.  He had to speak again with the doctor.
     
     As he closed the door to Pietro's room, however, he suddenly 
felt eyes upon him.  Thinking Pietro had awakened already, 
impossible as that was, he looked back at the boy.   Pietro was 
unconscious.  The Maestro Lorenzo Penzatti dismissed this as fear 
over the welfare of the boy who was like his own son, and went out.

     "He cannot sing on Thursday, " the doctor stated flatly, after 
telling the Maestro of  Pietro's demands.  
"He must stay in bed and be still for a week !  Am I mistaken, or 
has the news of Giovani's death damaged him ?  He was almost rude 
today, and I have never known Pietro to be like that . . . or any 
of the other boys here, for that matter.  Such impertinence usually 
garners a slap to the mouth."
     The Maestro shook his head and poured more wine for the both 
of them.  One of the older students, a castrato by the name of 
Frederico, had volunteered to watch over Pietro for the remainder 
of the day. Fred-erico was one of those eunuchs who was becomming 
chubby as he approached his 18th birthday, and although his voice 
was nothing fantastic, he had a great spirit and would do well just 
the same.  His only problem seemed to be in the area of food, and 
the doctor had pointed that out to him right before he left for 
Pietro's room.
     "I cannot say, my friend, what has come over him.  It is 
terrible that we gave him the news on this very day, to say the 
least.  He and Giovani were like brothers, inseperable.  Often in 
the mornings, when he was little, I would find Pietro in Giovani's 
bed, the marks of dried tears still on his face from some unknown 
nighttime ordeal, bad dreams, childhood fears, I don't know.  I 
cannot imagine what would go through an orphan's mind when the 
closest thing he has to family in this world is suddenly ripped 
away, " the Maestro mused.  "But what can we do ?  He will be 
devasted to miss the services, yet he must stay confined to bed.  
Therein lies our problem."
     "We could have him carried by litter and then carried in your 
arms to the services, Lorenzo, " the doctor thought aloud, dropping 
- finally - the formalities which he found so important.  The wine 
seemed to be loosening him up, the Maestro observed.  "But he will 
want to sing, and after sleeping for almost two days straight, his 
voice will be a disaster without warming up.  You and I both know 
that."
     After several minutes of deep thought, the Maestro agreed that 
seemed to be a good idea.  Pietro would be carried to the services, 
but would NOT be allowed to sing.  Though it might break his heart, 
it would surely not harm him as much as getting up early and 
warming up in his present condition.

     The sun was setting as Pietro stirred in his sleep.  He was 
dreaming now, hearing a voice choked with sorrow calling to him to 
come outside.  Someone was there, near the tree . . . someone 
calling, crying.

     Frederico looked up from his Latin textbook as Pietro moaned.  
He had lit a lamp some time before to read his assigned chapters, 
and the shadows played over the room with a bright yellow-orange 
glow that seemed so soothing, so relaxing.  Frederico yawned and 
stretched, setting his book aside.  He thought he heard something 
outside the window, but he had to  watch Pietro and decided not to 
go and look.  The smaller boy was opening his eyes now, the glaze 
from the opium almost gone.  He blinked several times and looked 
around slowly, trying to find the sound of the crying which has 
followed him up from his dreams . . . what he saw was the round 
face of Frederico, a study in observation, and he smiled.  Then he 
laughed weakly and began to cough.
     Frederico held him up and softly patted his back between the 
shoulder blades until the coughing fit subsided and then handed 
Pietro the glass of water he had been instructed to do.   The 
smaller boy looked at the glass, shook his head, and handed it 
back.  "I really have to pee, " he whispered.
     Frederico was not sure what to do, so he called down the 
hallway for someone to go and fetch the Maestro for instructions.  
Very serious about what had happened, about six boys ran from their 
rooms to the stairs and took off to fetch him.  It was, naturally, 
Marc, the small dark-skinned boy from the south, who returned 
shortly with what looked like a clay flower vase.  He had smirk on 
his face.  "The Maestro says to have him go in this and NOT to move 
any more than he has to, " Marc announced, "this outta be a neat 
trick !"  Frederico shook his head and laughed.  Pietro, now fully 
awake, was not impressed, however.
     "I have to do what ?!" he demanded, "I don't have time to stay 
in bed, I have to be up and practice for the funeral songs!  This 
is insane !  And what day is it, anyway?!"
     "Quit showing off your intelligence and just do it, Pietro," 
Frederico ordered, "I don't want to get my ass beat over your 
disobedience !  In case you've forgotten, you just had your balls 
removed, and I remember when they took mine out, I was more than 
happy to stay in bed for the week !"
     "You didn't kill your best friend the night before, either, " 
Pietro retorted, making a face that caused Marc to flee the room 
and Frederico to shrink back.  "And what is that noise ?!"
     "I don't hear anything, " Frederico answered.
     "Well, then, just turn around while I do this !"
     Frederico turned his back on Pietro, gazing out the window.  
He gasped when saw a small shape of what looked like a boy sitting 
on one of the broad limbs gazing into the window.  There was bearly 
enough light coming out of the conservatorio to see by, but the 
chunky eunuch was convinced that he saw someone out there.  
Suddenly he felt very tired as he stared at the shape in the tree.  
He yawned, returned to his chair, and began to nod.  "What's wrong 
?" Pietro demanded, just covering himself back up and placing the 
vase on the night table.
     "I don't feel too good, " Frederico replied, "I saw something 
. . ."
      THAT got Pietro's attention.  He swung his legs over the edge 
of his bed and leaned towards the window.  He couldn't see out for 
the glare, but he could hear the sound, the crying, and he could 
feel a pull of some kind.  "You can't get up, " Frederico protested 
weakly, his eyes bearly open, "We'll both get it so bad if you get 
caught !"  
     But Pietro had to know.  The call was too much to resist, and 
he got to his feet and slowly made his way to the window.  He could 
feel the dull ache in his groin and the bandage rubbing on his 
thighs, but still he had to know.  He was only vaguely aware that 
he was now a castrato, one of the special students at the 
conservatorio, that what he had hoped for had finally come to 
pass.  He had been found worthy, no, more than that, and they were 
impressed with him.  He had been castrated, his clear high voice 
protected from the ruination of manhood, but that was incidental 
now.  Someone was calling . . . 

     Frederico had fallen asleep in his chair, his chin touching 
his chest.  The glass of water he had offered Pietro, the water 
with more opium dissolved in it, sat undrank on the table.  The 
lamp continued to burn and throw shadows all around the room as 
Pietro opened his window to let in the cool night air.  He felt it 
blow against his face as the crying sound seemed to subside.  There 
WAS a shape in the tree, and as his eyes adjusted and the clouds 
blew away from the half moon, the light revealed a small boy of 
Pietro's own size sitting there, waiting.  "May I come in ?"  he 
asked.